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"goldenrod" poems
It was the time of my Auntie Bee summers    I was small then    She had a parakeet that landed on my head    and a bathtub too    with water so deep!    and legs and claws!    **** thing nearly chased me down the stairs! She lived in slumbery Windsor Locks    where bugs hung-out in the haze    of teenage August    I played in the tall weeds    with a shoeless Italian boy    who ate tomatoes like apples    and cucumbers right off the vine!    He was ***** free and foreign!    We played— reckless, abandoned    behind the gas pump, under the tractor, in the barn       and through the endless fields    I didn’t know....    His name was Tony    I ate pizza with him—the first time At Auntie Bee’s I had to go to bed at eight    but I could watch night flowers    bloom on wallpaper    She came in to say good night    slippered, shadowy, night dress slightly open    and I peeped her *******    like Tony’s cucumbers!    I had never seen my mother’s wonders.... Night spread its wings from the old fan—    a bird of tireless exhaustion    whipped, whipped, whipped to death in its cage    tireless exhaustion    tic-tocking in time to a wind-up clock    stretched out on the whine    of the overland trucks    Route Five through the night of an open window In the grape arbor below— tremulous incessant    crickets    crickets    crickets tremulous incessant—insides of a child    a summer child    not yet ready for the fall of answers Auntie Bee had a daughter—Maureen    I followed her everywhere I could    I was small then--        do anything for a stick of Juicy Fruit I followed Maureen through my dreams    of being sixteen    and woke to Peggy’s “Fever”    while she tied her sneakers    against the mattress by my head I followed Maureen (in my mind)    tanned and bandanned    to work in the fields of shade tobacco    with all those Puerto Rican boys!    She knew where she was going! I was small then ...do anything for a stick of  gum “Mauney! Mauney! Mauney!”    ...through the goldenrod of roadside    through the smell of oil that damped the dust     I followed Maureen’s white shorts    and chestnut hair...to the corner store I followed the way the boys smiled    the way the screen door slammed    on her bright behind    the way her lips taunted and took    the coke-bottle’s green I followed Maureen I swear, I tried for hours to get that right! Must have been Peggy Lee’s “Fever” Maureen ties her sneakers in my face Flaunts her years above my head She has that look— “We kids don’t know nothin” (Little turds” that we be) …followin’ Maureen through the goldenrod of roadside tic-tockin’, beboppin’ “Fever— in the morning Fever all through the night….”
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Aug 24, 2016
Aug 24, 2016 at 11:30 PM UTC
I Follow Maureen
It was the time of my Auntie Bee summers    I was small then    She had a parakeet that landed on my head    and a bathtub too    with water so deep!    and legs and claws!    **** thing nearly chased me down the stairs! She lived in slumbery Windsor Locks    where bugs hung-out in the haze    of teenage August    I played in the tall weeds    with a shoeless Italian boy    who ate tomatoes like apples    and cucumbers right off the vine!    He was ***** free and foreign!    We played— reckless, abandoned    behind the gas pump, under the tractor, in the barn       and through the endless fields    I didn’t know....    His name was Tony    I ate pizza with him—the first time At Auntie Bee’s I had to go to bed at eight    but I could watch night flowers    bloom on wallpaper    She came in to say good night    slippered, shadowy, night dress slightly open    and I peeped her *******    like Tony’s cucumbers!    I had never seen my mother’s wonders.... Night spread its wings from the old fan—    a bird of tireless exhaustion    whipped, whipped, whipped to death in its cage    tireless exhaustion    tic-tocking in time to a wind-up clock    stretched out on the whine    of the overland trucks    Route Five through the night of an open window In the grape arbor below— tremulous incessant    crickets    crickets    crickets tremulous incessant—insides of a child    a summer child    not yet ready for the fall of answers Auntie Bee had a daughter—Maureen    I followed her everywhere I could    I was small then--        do anything for a stick of Juicy Fruit I followed Maureen through my dreams    of being sixteen    and woke to Peggy’s “Fever”    while she tied her sneakers    against the mattress by my head I followed Maureen (in my mind)    tanned and bandanned    to work in the fields of shade tobacco    with all those Puerto Rican boys!    She knew where she was going! I was small then ...do anything for a stick of  gum “Mauney! Mauney! Mauney!”    ...through the goldenrod of roadside    through the smell of oil that damped the dust     I followed Maureen’s white shorts    and chestnut hair...to the corner store I followed the way the boys smiled    the way the screen door slammed    on her bright behind    the way her lips taunted and took    the coke-bottle’s green I followed Maureen I swear, I tried for hours to get that right! Must have been Peggy Lee’s “Fever” Maureen ties her sneakers in my face Flaunts her years above my head She has that look— “We kids don’t know nothin” (Little turds” that we be) …followin’ Maureen through the goldenrod of roadside tic-tockin’, beboppin’ “Fever— in the morning Fever all through the night….”
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82
All lovely things will have an ending, All lovely things will fade and die, And youth, that's now so bravely spending, Will beg a penny by and by. Fine ladies soon are all forgotten, And goldenrod is dust when dead, The sweetest flesh and flowers are rotten And cobwebs tent the brightest head. Come back, true love! Sweet youth, return!- But time goes on, and will, unheeding, Though hands will reach, and eyes will yearn, And the wild days set true hearts bleeding. Come back, true love! Sweet youth, remain!- But goldenrod and daisies wither, And over them blows autumn rain, They pass, they pass, and know not whither.
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7k
All Lovely Things
I had not been born yet. Still, I can see you at your labor - alone, scouring the meadows for the stones - lifting their gray shoulders from the moist earth - pulling them from the green grasp of briars, goldenrod, and Queen Anne’s Lace. The smell of the earth must have filled you with your own childhood memories - of plowing fields and cold mornings trudging across barn yards mud thick on your boots - promising yourself that someday you would leave and never return. I can hear the pick axe - the sharp strikes against the stones, and the dull thud when the earth swallowed the blade - and the deep exhalations when the stones tumbled into the old wheelbarrow – new then - that now leans rusting against my garden shed. Some of the stones were so large - far too large for one man – how did you move them? I look at the old photographs and you seem so young – so much younger than I am today - and so thin – staring off-frame beyond the camera. What were you looking for in those fields? I can see you sorting the stones, stacking them - building and unbuilding and rebuilding the walls and  terraces until the walls were true and the terraces level and planted with dogwood, birches, soft grass for bare feet, and bordered with roses. Did you know that you were building my castle? That the highest terrace would be my tower and keep? I remember calling out to my knights, my legionnaires, and tribesmen – rallying them in defense of the citadel –  ready for the coming siege. I also remember looking out across that verdant kingdom for the last time - no longer a king or a boy – and miles away, across the river to the west, I imagined the new home that awaited us. I couldn’t know how far away it would be or what it meant to leave. This morning, as I looked out across the garden that I have built, I felt the weightlessness of time and its gravity settling me into place. For a brief moment I had the sensation that I was standing on the shoulders of gathered stones. (for my father, Guy Spencer.) Tom Spencer © 2015
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Jul 4, 2015
Jul 4, 2015 at 12:13 PM UTC
Gathered Stones
I had not been born yet. Still, I can see you at your labor - alone, scouring the meadows for the stones - lifting their gray shoulders from the moist earth - pulling them from the green grasp of briars, goldenrod, and Queen Anne’s Lace. The smell of the earth must have filled you with your own childhood memories - of plowing fields and cold mornings trudging across barn yards mud thick on your boots - promising yourself that someday you would leave and never return. I can hear the pick axe - the sharp strikes against the stones, and the dull thud when the earth swallowed the blade - and the deep exhalations when the stones tumbled into the old wheelbarrow – new then - that now leans rusting against my garden shed. Some of the stones were so large - far too large for one man – how did you move them? I look at the old photographs and you seem so young – so much younger than I am today - and so thin – staring off-frame beyond the camera. What were you looking for in those fields? I can see you sorting the stones, stacking them - building and unbuilding and rebuilding the walls and  terraces until the walls were true and the terraces level and planted with dogwood, birches, soft grass for bare feet, and bordered with roses. Did you know that you were building my castle? That the highest terrace would be my tower and keep? I remember calling out to my knights, my legionnaires, and tribesmen – rallying them in defense of the citadel –  ready for the coming siege. I also remember looking out across that verdant kingdom for the last time - no longer a king or a boy – and miles away, across the river to the west, I imagined the new home that awaited us. I couldn’t know how far away it would be or what it meant to leave. This morning, as I looked out across the garden that I have built, I felt the weightlessness of time and its gravity settling me into place. For a brief moment I had the sensation that I was standing on the shoulders of gathered stones. (for my father, Guy Spencer.) Tom Spencer © 2015
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83
My sweetest soldier left me and was dragged across the sea My nights are now silent and my heart is drowned with fear So, here I cannot stand to be Through weary nights I held my guard 'till the stars came out to torment me For, all the beauty of the night was now forever marred My heart trembled with the candlelight So I went to seek her chambers,but all was locked and barred Even whispered words from my dear soldiers could do little to ease my fright I wrote letters to my sweetest knight with sparkling, savage fury I fought sleep away with every ounce of my might Too soon, my hands and eyes grew weary I filled my pages with stories of beasts we would nevermore fight my eyes where too full of tears so I could not see clearly I've lost my dearest companion and the bringer of my light She sent letters back,of course, and they were wept over with many a tear For a day, sprigs of goldenrod adorned my collar bright for a day, at least, I forgot to think of fear Then I had dreams of feathered serpents wrapped around her throat her eyes were scratched out by hoary hell-kites and her heart was pierced with a spear All my daylight hours, and all my nighttime too, to my knight I did devote We continued writing letters and I lead my soldiers too no one ever asked of what this did denote 'till fever caught me by my throat and threw my mind askew My hands shook too violently and ink had streaked my page In my letters, I tried so hard to have my pain seem subdued My dear light-bringer needn't fear a fever's shallow rage She saw through my ruse too quickly and I think she panicked more I tried to calm her with winged words and locks of sage I promised her there was a cure My dreams were fueled by fire and the darkness lurking there when I woke I fell sobbing to the freezing floor She would have gathered me in her arms and kept me in her care Beasts and berserkers set my night under siege I could only see my sweetest knight scarred by bloodless warfare Her spirit fell to the mercy of my new-found, thankless liege My throat was streaked with clawing pain cups of water I did beseech bitter liquid assailed my body and bound my fate with chains I saw my sweetest soldier and her hands skimmed through my hair Her eyes shined like pearls which I hoped she would retain Her kisses on my cheeks were so radiant and rare I knew then never would we be apart and in my chambers with the firelight there I could rest with the keeper of my heart
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Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 12:24 AM UTC
The Knight
My sweetest soldier left me and was dragged across the sea My nights are now silent and my heart is drowned with fear So, here I cannot stand to be Through weary nights I held my guard 'till the stars came out to torment me For, all the beauty of the night was now forever marred My heart trembled with the candlelight So I went to seek her chambers,but all was locked and barred Even whispered words from my dear soldiers could do little to ease my fright I wrote letters to my sweetest knight with sparkling, savage fury I fought sleep away with every ounce of my might Too soon, my hands and eyes grew weary I filled my pages with stories of beasts we would nevermore fight my eyes where too full of tears so I could not see clearly I've lost my dearest companion and the bringer of my light She sent letters back,of course, and they were wept over with many a tear For a day, sprigs of goldenrod adorned my collar bright for a day, at least, I forgot to think of fear Then I had dreams of feathered serpents wrapped around her throat her eyes were scratched out by hoary hell-kites and her heart was pierced with a spear All my daylight hours, and all my nighttime too, to my knight I did devote We continued writing letters and I lead my soldiers too no one ever asked of what this did denote 'till fever caught me by my throat and threw my mind askew My hands shook too violently and ink had streaked my page In my letters, I tried so hard to have my pain seem subdued My dear light-bringer needn't fear a fever's shallow rage She saw through my ruse too quickly and I think she panicked more I tried to calm her with winged words and locks of sage I promised her there was a cure My dreams were fueled by fire and the darkness lurking there when I woke I fell sobbing to the freezing floor She would have gathered me in her arms and kept me in her care Beasts and berserkers set my night under siege I could only see my sweetest knight scarred by bloodless warfare Her spirit fell to the mercy of my new-found, thankless liege My throat was streaked with clawing pain cups of water I did beseech bitter liquid assailed my body and bound my fate with chains I saw my sweetest soldier and her hands skimmed through my hair Her eyes shined like pearls which I hoped she would retain Her kisses on my cheeks were so radiant and rare I knew then never would we be apart and in my chambers with the firelight there I could rest with the keeper of my heart
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45
Your thunders roll, The twin sets clash and tolls. Unpleasant sounds toss and wake. Even the whole earth seems to shake. Why did this happen here? What caused this conflict to begin here? All knows that the gods have feuded and side. Only wanting nothing more than status pride. Rules debated and time standing come yet. For these greedy, merciless gods take what they can get. There will be a law said, To avoid the call of family banishéd. But what about you? When tis your cue? To speak freely against the gods And demand fairness firm and strong as goldenrod? Resist blindly following their pleas. Because then the conflict will never ease. Do not forever be misguided. For you yourself is already undecided. Choose well and wise. The gods will soon see your open eyes. Even if the thunders roar, Your choice will be even more.
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Nov 14, 2012
Nov 14, 2012 at 6:59 PM UTC
Rival Gods
dings and whistles from the slot alert him escape - sit before my image enter its wild wolf canyon escape winding road in lofty forest landscape beckon her - leave him for my green escape triple x signs promise writhing bodies heavy breathing and dark dank escape the flute lay still of the silent table sparkling sweet melodic memories of fingered escape the frothy surging surf traces the seam of the sea - bathe in my ***** wrap your self in my fluid escape locked door soft light from below no sounds inside creative energy sparks a poetic escape on the placid lake he casts his hopes awaits the tug - he and his prey escape she stands eyes closed, smiling face turned upward feels the breeze in her hair thanks God for this sweet escape he runs in the field of goldenrod tears stream and he screams a desperate entreaty for escape the sylvan spirits flown from the mountain trees into the green glen whisper as angels - escape!
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May 27, 2019
May 27, 2019 at 7:18 PM UTC
Escape
Your brittle calcium coated voice slides down my throat like water, little blue gods of poetry. Nothing to do but **** and fight. There’s a run on sentence in my veins whole flowers framing my bruises. My bone quiet bruises wait five miles from your medical voice, english coastline of veins covering my anatomy like large bodies of water. **** yesterday’s fist fight you left your apologies in poetry. My alcoholic poetry a blood orange coated in bruises a history of last night’s pillow fight catching religion in your voice. The swallows splash in water quiet in my dessicate veins. Fields of goldenrod veins make my honorary poetry a theory of cursive water. Leave aching vegetarian bruises on my calloused voice from tearing open the sun to fight. A polaroid water fight rolls around in my open veins a punctuation of your raspy voice, hospitalized my skin in poetry. A reckless consumption of bruises with a mint leaf in a glass water. Soft echoes burn across the water silver scissors in a domestic fight running away from bruises and mountains of veins. My second language is poetry giving my fingertips a muffled voice. Empty water pleads with your broken voice, makes me fight against pleated poetry and pomegranate bruises tighten in my veins.
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Feb 18, 2014
Feb 18, 2014 at 12:17 AM UTC
Sestina 3 - Salt toffee
Mouth every mouth every mouth breathes every mouth breathes autumnal. Every mouth breathes autumnal investigations. Every mouth breathes autumnal investigations tinged with sepia tones- Torch trees live in lazy desperation, these last cider days in burrows and blanket caves. Heat in color - amber, saffron, goldenrod, maize. Sepia tones sepia tones tinged sepia tones tinged with investigations. Sepia tones tinged with autumnal investigations. They see every mouth breathe. See every mouth. Mouths.
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Jun 24, 2012
Jun 24, 2012 at 6:48 PM UTC
Persephone Drinks Hot Cocoa
they say you should fear flowers for they grow in adversity, adapt, and face the sun, and when we were little we ****** on the stems of gardenias like honeybees with our nimble, sticky fingers. And today I learned to ride a bike with no hands and a sweat plastered shirt clinging to my spine, so, instead, shouldn't you be afraid of me?
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Sep 28, 2014
Sep 28, 2014 at 8:50 PM UTC
Goldenrod Girl.
When we were kids they taught the raspberry things dyed lips blue and rubbed honey on before kisses, everything was stale sugar, your breath warm lemonade and red ochre arms chilled in the goldenrod shadow
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Dec 10, 2012
Dec 10, 2012 at 1:20 PM UTC
Apricot.
angelica fits, weaves through my fingertips, out my mouth sprouts morning glories and wormwood blooms across my eyelashes. i’ve lost something i never had; nevertheless i feel the lack in the spaces in my chest. perhaps some space is left yet uncultivated, yet unpopulated by meadowsweet or marigold -- perhaps i could unfold the silk-soft petals of a crocus, let the columbine alone and let the moss rose grow.
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Aug 31, 2013
Aug 31, 2013 at 11:37 PM UTC
goldenrod
and in it she stood awash with crescented chrysanthemums with honeysuckle skin and wisteria eyelashes and with it i said if nights were like coins id spend them all on you and twinkle them between my fingers shaking them up and admiring the glint and value of the night and its stars and the coppery, nickel-y dusk that stains my hand with the bouquet of metal and flowers goldenrod warmth from nights and coins invariably spent alongside only you with a perfume of evening and pressing summer heat and my whispers and promises that tell you that if nights were like coins id spend them all on you
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Mar 13, 2015
Mar 13, 2015 at 2:56 AM UTC
if nights were like coins
August is wonderful month for star gazing. Camellias, dauphin Oise and renuculars in full bloom this August How much sun does my August Moon flowers needs; the more sun, the more golden the texture shine on through Here came the brides, marching down the aisles with theirs fathers While, the theme of Goldenrod, Sunflower yellow, Saffron and Dandelion takes center stage, August is a month that stands its own merit an excellent month for bird migration, but not for illegal immigrants August's birth flower is gladiolus, its comes with, calm, integrity, and infatuation August is the wayward month no less. Star gazing at its best
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Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 9:41 AM UTC
Star Gazing Month
Goldenrod in bloom Bunny hopping through the woods Acorns fall from oak ~Marian~
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Jun 3, 2017
Jun 3, 2017 at 12:17 PM UTC
Fall (Haiku)
The golden girl, is not lost, The Canadian Plains transversely crossed, Destination unknown, but her dust trail, Her goldenrod writings, take my breath away, Her stories leave me incomplete, inchoate, For I drink her trust, drink her dust, Yet thirsty left, pleading, more.
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Sep 2, 2013
Sep 2, 2013 at 11:47 AM UTC
Rebecca Askew
You're having a bad day not everything is good? Yes, that's very true... come in and sit down. You haven't eaten? Well... you came to the right place. Here is a nice armchair, my Grandmother's from Ethen Allen yes... a beautiful deep burgundy color with goldenrod yellow twirling paisley in a burning orange background... lovely she is her shapely curves... rugged, straight lines carved into flowers her cherry stained legs worn edges... so soft, comfortable and weathered I agree she is very reliable and sturdy and she is kind so forgiving...yes? Oh, fresh coffee ... ahhhh you smelled it, of course here you go a steaming cup of hopeful dreaming... brilliant, in a aromatic plume of Tahitian Hazelnut swirling ribbons of fresh Vermont cream cinnamon rolls in the oven sugary love smells intoxicating... yes? glazed sugar awaiting as cool crisp dried leafy breezes flow through waiting drapes of warm white linen Yes, so very  poetic this place... A gift...why I'd say! I love this time of year very much... especially the trees... floating in the air the leaf dancers drift silently waving Goodbye in the Fall winds Welcome to my  Vermont to the beautiful Green Mountains in splendid peaking colors panoramic splendor The natives so oh...you know They call 'em verdant visions again come springtime come on, stay awhile put on a friendly smile a welcome done in style my home is your home take your hat off what's the hurry? Cherie Nolan © 2016
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Sep 6, 2016
Sep 6, 2016 at 11:25 AM UTC
"Take Your Hat Off What's The Hurry?"
Sug The frame a town in the Midwest time teen years the person a girl I have been touched by the Smokies Its southern magnificence the heritage it evokes, the Rockies awe inspiring, the Sierra Nevada its Grandeur commanding sheltered by the San Gabriel’s as I played in Los Angeles these places have one Thing in common they cause you to look out and beyond on the rich views below and they cause a Mighty flood of memories to crash ever so sweetly in the soul yes plenty of teenagers were around but For different reasons each uniquely stood out and apart all that made up the texture of this time its Greatness the final touches were being added to our lives and from this we would go on the harder Sometimes tougher road of life but in the midst of it all she stood like a Goldenrod impossible to miss Bright yellow in the profusion of other vivid colors for Ed unforgettable she possesses an undertow of Quiet Cool she didn’t make a great stir but a gentle one you slowly stepped and submerged yourself in The Quiet magic she created truly the pebble had fallen into the pool imperceptibly you couldn’t put You’re Finger on when but the circles continued to widen and you felt their effects a gentle hush Pervaded our sometimes rambunctious lives she at times was that indefinable darker hue that brought Depth to The picture soothing tremble that came into your life touched you then continued to the outer Reaches Still it lingered and in its make up hope sprang up causing a defense ageist alarm no harm Defied Her Charm this is just my simple way of saying thanks for being a wondrous part of my youth and what I am today and also happy birthday Sug
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Jan 10, 2012
Jan 10, 2012 at 2:02 AM UTC
Sug
Sug The frame a town in the Midwest time teen years the person a girl I have been touched by the Smokies Its southern magnificence the heritage it evokes, the Rockies awe inspiring, the Sierra Nevada its Grandeur commanding sheltered by the San Gabriel’s as I played in Los Angeles these places have one Thing in common they cause you to look out and beyond on the rich views below and they cause a Mighty flood of memories to crash ever so sweetly in the soul yes plenty of teenagers were around but For different reasons each uniquely stood out and apart all that made up the texture of this time its Greatness the final touches were being added to our lives and from this we would go on the harder Sometimes tougher road of life but in the midst of it all she stood like a Goldenrod impossible to miss Bright yellow in the profusion of other vivid colors for Ed unforgettable she possesses an undertow of Quiet Cool she didn’t make a great stir but a gentle one you slowly stepped and submerged yourself in The Quiet magic she created truly the pebble had fallen into the pool imperceptibly you couldn’t put You’re Finger on when but the circles continued to widen and you felt their effects a gentle hush Pervaded our sometimes rambunctious lives she at times was that indefinable darker hue that brought Depth to The picture soothing tremble that came into your life touched you then continued to the outer Reaches Still it lingered and in its make up hope sprang up causing a defense ageist alarm no harm Defied Her Charm this is just my simple way of saying thanks for being a wondrous part of my youth and what I am today and also happy birthday Sug
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18
poets often write about running carefree through prairies as if it is romantic. they don’t know the itch the ***** of thick grass the **** of goldenrod the sting of thistle. they haven’t hoisted one moist rubber-clad leg waist-high over the other again and again and again waterproof yet sweating just to move ten feet. they haven’t picked seeds from sticky skin as the fields give way to marsh grass to cattails reeds to rushes. they haven’t bobbed and balanced up and down and up on floating mats of dead, sewn stalks walking on water a minefield of bog slime. i haven’t stopped watching my steps since i got that job and i think i’m due for a misstep. i’m looking to stop scratching to stop picking to stop bobbing. i’m looking for a darling weak spot strong enough to swallow me in this swamp. i would bushwhack to her through the pricking the prodding and the stinging put the wrong foot forward plunge through the mat and let her pour over the tops of my waders and sink me deeper and deeper and too deep. i would drown in her.
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Mar 7, 2013
Mar 7, 2013 at 12:53 AM UTC
running and not
As snow does to a fire that runs Blue white Ophelia floats Mad with love as magnificent as snow And among water lilies Star which melts away The wind kisses her ******* Shivering willows A nest of mad kisses Curves of her back In each soft corner From violet forests His sweet brow On the seascape The calm black water Black moss embroidered Her great veils rising Why the goldenrod stars Love her reflection madly The rivers are a sail Shadow flowers with bale Scented twilight A pearl sky
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Jul 11, 2010
Jul 11, 2010 at 10:59 AM UTC
Mad Love
Light creases the pavement like ruddied cheeks on a pillowcase, warms the scrappy reeds, the goldenrod bunching on hillsides, the tired, waterless crop and their juvenilia tenacious and cambering over field - (and with present as marked past) all realigns and is overwhelmingly                         simple
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Sep 30, 2012
Sep 30, 2012 at 9:43 PM UTC
To the Farm
The moon is missing Old stories oppress the scorned clock's hand What is this interminable waiting? Lost are the World's metaphors Lost and fled to a dark place Once beehives born in new orchards They now dissolve in time's dead way And die in the viciousness of niceness Densely social and devoid of empty Do I dare ask these forbidden questions She is missing, missing to me I know where she is but I can't find her   but now I see the harvest corn   and a bursting city of goldenrod                (this can only mean good)
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Sep 24, 2015
Sep 24, 2015 at 1:38 PM UTC
Unsonnet
In a field of grasshopper heat of the pride the prone of the all that is forever gone of crow hops - hops - hops down a bug of a bridge I built across a creek of frogs that take a peek of overhead an eagle soars of a mouse fast in the grass of cattails around the pound of a snake , branched hanging on of upon seeing me falls and is gone of a sea of goldenrod and green of sadly seeing yesterday's dream
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Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 9:26 PM UTC
Goldenrod Sweet
She's my mountain rose & I'm her blue spruce. I'd love to spread her patchouli all over my ylang ylang, then kiss her cypress, give her a bit of my goldenrod & lay in the lemongrass holding hands to view the star anise wasting thyme.
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Jul 7, 2014
Jul 7, 2014 at 8:28 AM UTC
essentialoildreams
Centered on the table, there sits a bowl Filled with the fruits of a rainbow of shades Colorful essence erupts in my soul Maroon, chartreuse, rose, goldenrod, and jade Ignore the mouth watering sensation Caused by a vibrant banana - yellow I cannot give in to my temptation The priceless jewels lay silently, mellow I gaze at the fruit in perfect rapture Stroking my fingers against smooth cherries Such sweet gems have my attention captured I eye the dozens of bright, plump berries I soon discover a fate so drastic The flawless bowlful of fruit is plastic
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Jul 7, 2010
Jul 7, 2010 at 11:19 PM UTC
Sonnet 1